


Together Regardless

by akire_yta



Category: Firefly, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Edge was where the waifs and strays washed up – the werewolves and the lost boys, the fey and the strange and the seeking. Captain Hale was just looking to make some quick coin by taking on passengers. He wasn't expecting a mystery, let alone the start of something (but then he never was very good at beginnings). (Teen Wolf – Firefly AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> some cussing, references to sex but nothing explicit, and fair warning, Scott gets his brains put through a blender pre-story and so Firefly-level reference to brain injury and some oblique discussion about neuro-atypical behaviour that isn't always positive.
> 
> For Steph – HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! Hope you like it. Title from “First Day of My Life,” by The Rasmus, which is pretty much Stiles' themesong in this. unbetaed

Derek's always had trouble with beginnings. Even after the fact, he has trouble identifying when something flipped into something else. The War hadn't started with a bang, just the gradual creep of the soldiers, and a growing hunger that got worse each winter, until their backs were against the wall and fighting was the only option left. His family may have died in the fire, but Derek had caused their deaths months before, sometime in the night, when Kate had kissed her lies up under his skin.

  


The only time he'd seen change coming was when he'd been standing in the dust of the old shipyard, not hearing a word the agent was saying because he'd just seen perfection. He'd named her  Serenity for that very moment.

  


He wasn't feeling very serene now. The last haul hadn't brought in much coin, and there were a dozen ships on the dock before them when they'd touched down at Beacon. Even if they hadn't robbed a wreck blind a week before, Derek would still be itching to take off before they'd even touched down.

  


When his parents had brought them into town, Beacon had seemed so huge. Now it just felt tiny, claustrophobic, with nowhere left to hide.

  


“Lydia!” Derek yelled, stomping down the gangway towards the engine room, Lydia's private sanctuary, where she petted and stroked and cajoled  Serenity  into purring beyond the point when any other mechanic would be picking up broken pieces of boat out of the black.

  


Lydia popped up from behind the manifold, hair perfect, a tiny smudge of grease on one cheek. “Yes, Captain, my Captain?” she teased.

  


“You still want that catalyzer?” he asked, arms crossed.  He hated the thought of spending coin they really couldn’t spare, but Lydia’s requests had moved from demands to real concern. 

  


Her eyes lit up, and Derek was again struck that, though there were only a few years separating them, Lydia was still in a lot of ways so very young. She was human, still, she could afford to be. “Make sure you get the right one. Nothing with a Z in the serial number, or else it will do more harm than good, got it?”

  


Derek was already heading out, though he made a mental note. “You'll get what we can afford,” he yelled back.  “And speaking of, put out the welcome mat!” He stomped off before he could hear her response.

  


Lydia loved taking on passengers, loved the gossip and the fresh conversation. Derek just hated that two-thirds of his crew had to fake human until the interlopers were off-ship again. He normally would take on any job, even cattle-rustling, rather than that. But they needed coin, to keep flying.

  


Derek would do anything, to keep flying.

  


He'd stomped out, taking Erica and Isaac with him to the meet with Morrell, who'd promptly tried to shaft them.  But Derek was expecting that; hence his original bid being three times what he'd take for the bars.  Her goons had watched them leave with sharp eyes and weapons off safety.  Morrell had known his parents, knew what Derek was.  But she was a businesswoman, now, respectable, proper.  She’d trade as long as Derek could bring her the goods.  Her currency was a reassuring weight in his pouch; heavy and real and something he could believe in.

  


It just was enough to refuel and restock them enough to last another month, and by the time it had all been loaded, Lydia was walking the passengers she'd found up the gangplank. A preacher, by the look of it – Derek made a mental note to warn Jackson. For a trained whore (Derek savoured the word in his head, where Jackson couldn't hear), the kid had a habit of flashing eyes at the clergy. And, well, Derek was old enough to remember hearing men in stiff collars talking up the 'threat' of werewolves before it had flashed into War.  Plus, men of cloth tended to be a mite snooty about Companions in general.

  


The last thing they needed was the kind of attention you got when a preacher washed out of the black with his throat ripped out.

  


The other was a kid, maybe Lydia's age, if that. Derek paused on the catwalk over the deck and sniffed the air. The kid was buttoned up tight, but he carried the whiff of recycled air and stress and fear.

  


Lots of fear.

  


Derek glanced over and saw Erica lick her lips. “Erica, no,” Derek murmured at a volume only werewolves could hear, and in a tone his betas would obey. The kid was afraid? That was his business. As long as he could pay.

  


The kid didn't even notice the exchange, too focused on gently floating a large, metal crate to a safe corner of the loading deck.

  


Derek left them too it and went to tell Boyd to take them and their two new passengers up.

  


Less than 24 hours later and a lot of screaming and a little violence later, and Derek discovered that they actually had three passengers.

  


The kid in the icebox was a wolf, new, scared and addled by more than the violence of his turning, if Derek was any judge. He clung, naked and terrified, to the buttoned-up kid, Stiles something, as Stiles made soothing noises and ignored everyone else who was staring in various stages of shock.

  


Derek stole Jackson's expensive, fancy shawl thing and draped it over the naked wolf's shoulders. The kid flinched, but didn't let go of Stiles. Derek rested a hand on the pup's shoulders, and felt him relax slightly, instinctively surrendering to an Alpha. Derek looked Stiles right in the eye. “Explain,” he growled, letting his eyes flash red.

  


Derek will always remember how Stiles  didn't flinch.

  


* * *

  


Stiles stood tall, shoulders back. He interlaced his fingers to stop his shaking from being obvious, though, if the Captain was a werewolf, it was kind of a moot point. Everyone was staring at him, waiting. Stiles wanted to be down in the tiny medbay, sitting with Scott, but Scott was sedated, sleeping as peacefully as he could.

  


Stiles job now was to keep him safe.

  


“Scott is the kindest person you'd ever hope to meet,” Stiles began. He talked about Scott being his best friend since they were five, about the men who came to test them all and took a special interest in Scott. His kindness, his sweetness, his absolute loyalty. About how they had taken Scott away to a 'special school,' and the secret messages that Stiles had received. His voice broke as he recited the last one:  Help. They're hurting me.

  


Stiles kept his voice impassive as he glossed over how he infiltrated the school which was more a laboratory than anything. How he'd found Scott, chained in a cage, the fresh bite already fading from his side. He talked about stealing Scott away, locking him up through every full moon, sedating him when his control slipped so he wouldn't hurt anyone, trying to train him. About the medical records he'd stolen, the clinical descriptions of trying to make a biddable wolf, and how Scott wasn’t the success they’d been hoping for.  He’d been earmarked for destruction, when Stiles had finally arrived.

  


One more day, and he’d have been too late.

  


Stiles tried to keep it all at a remove, but his eyes were burning, his nose clogged as he finished talking. “We can leave the ship at the next port if you want, Captain. But I promise, Scott isn't a danger, we've learned how to keep him in control. We just need to get out, away from the Core.”

  


“You want to go to the borders?” Isaac sneered.

  


Stiles met his gaze, though he'd give anything to be able to run away, run back home, before this all happened. “We've heard rumours that there are wolf packs there, some with humans in the pack.”

  


“They're rumours.”

  


It was the first time the Captain had spoken since he'd let go of Stiles' throat, back in the medbay. Stiles touched a finger to the bruises he could feel blooming there. Captain Hale had squeezed hard enough that Stiles could barely get out the explanation of the sedative, of Scott needing it after being released from stasis so suddenly. Stiles had the distinct impression that, had he wanted, the Captain could have gone on increasing the pressure indefinitely. “It's all we've got,” Stiles said simply, bowing his head and letting their fate fall into the hands of a man he hardly knew. Werewolf he hardly knew, Stiles amended, remembering those red eyes. Would that work in their favour, or against?

  


The room fell silent, all eyes on the Captain. Hale stood suddenly. “You paid your fare; we'll take you there,” he grunted, studying Stiles thoughtfully. Stiles gasped as if he'd been released when Hale looked away, turning face to the preacher. “What about you, preacher? You got a problem with a werewolf, you'd best say so now.”

  


The preacher smiled peacefully. “No problems here, Captain Hale. I find no matter the species, we all have the same need to find a home.”

  


Hale glared at him suspiciously a moment longer before stomping out, barking orders. Stiles slumped, trying to remember how to breathe. The girl in the overalls and pretty shirt was staring at him. Stiles smiled awkwardly back and retreated to the medbay to take care of Scott, make sure he'd be well enough, in control enough, to walk off this rust bucket by the time they made port.

  


* * *

  


They never did make it to Angel City. Stiles told himself they had nothing better, and the Captain never asked them to leave, so they stayed. 

  


Stiles kept their bag packed, just in case.

  


* * *

  


Somehow, somewhere, they fell into a pattern. Derek rescued Scott and Stiles when they got kidnapped by that weird cult/pack on that backwater moon. Stiles held Derek together with his bare hands and the kind of cussing that Derek didn't think a city kid would know when a group of hunters shot him up with wolfsbane and silver. Stiles taught Erica and Lydia basic first aid, and Boyd and Isaac taught Stiles to shoot straight without shrieking like a tiny child.

  


Derek was still no good at spotting beginnings, but he suspected something might have started when Scott came into the galley by himself late one night. “Stiles ain't here,” Derek had muttered at the pup. He was a pup, all big eyes and floppy hair, and Scott had evoked a need to protect and nurture even out of Erica and Jackson, two of the hardest fucking werewolves in the verse, and even Isaac, who Derek otherwise would have sworn wouldn't have had a soft thought for anything not cash or weapons.

  


Derek wanted Scott in his pack; broken as he was, there was something about him that fit, that smoothed off all the sharp edges of the  Serenity  pack, made them mesh. But Scott seemed only to see Stiles – Derek wondered if, to the pup, the rest of them were but as ghosts. He expected Scott to stumble off, find his human, the only one he seemed to need. But Scott surprised him, by coming over and gently nudging himself up until he was tucked under Derek's arm, body pressed in. He was warm, but his heart was steady. He stole a protein bar off Derek's plate and nibbled at it. “That was mine,” Derek told him without rancour.

  


Scott just smiled at him, a heartbreaking moment of brilliance, a glimpse at who he had been, and ate the bar with the quick, tiny bites of someone who expects to have their food taken away any second, someone who learned to keep any victory quiet.

  


Derek let him stay there, pressed in tight, Scott's head on his shoulder, as he ate the rest of his meal with his free hand. He heard Stiles walking up the gangway, knew Scott must have heard it too, and gently lifted his arm so Scott could slither away. But he didn't. Derek heard Stiles pause in the open hatchway for a moment, before his footsteps came around to the galley. There was a chink of cups rattling, then Stiles sat down opposite them at the table.  His face was blank, but his eyes held the sad fondness they always had when he looked at Scott.

  


Derek nodded his thanks as Stiles handed him a glass of water. Stiles nodded his thanks back as he poured a second glass for Scott.

  


* * *

  


Stiles sat with his feet dangling over the edge, arms folded on the thin safety line that was strung along the gangway, and watched the basketball game play out on the deck below. His eye was drawn to the tiny scar that ringed his wrist, faint and silvery on pale skin, his latest memento from his time out on the edge of the dark.

  


He was almost getting used to being kidnapped; that said a lot, he thought, about his life now.

  


He remembered first hatching this plan, a lifetime ago, surrounded by the wealth and privilege of the Core, even if at the time he didn't feel privileged at all. That Stiles had shiny shoes, and his collar buttoned up under his chin, the way all young men did. That Stiles had believed, if they just made it to Angel City, they'd hook up with some hypothetical hybrid pack and everything would be roses.

  


But all the packs they'd met had either been openly hostile, or hospitably wary. Either way, there'd been no homes for them there, especially not with Scott being...Scott.

  


Down on the deck, Derek passed to Scott, who twisted around Boyd, faked out Isaac, and dropped the ball through the makeshift hoop. Stiles applauded, watched with a smile as Scott skipped around in happiness. His speech patterns were still little more than mangled puzzles, cryptic and frustrating, and he might wake up every night in a cold sweat from a memory of  that place, but Stiles was sure now that Scott was doing a little better. Stiles would take any good news he could get. But to get really better, Stiles needed more information, stuff he had no chance of getting here.

  


Isaac caught the ball, snarking something at Derek and Scott that Stiles couldn't hear. This, here,  was at least part of the reason for it, not any treatment or pills prescribed. The others, especially the other wolves, didn't treat Scott any differently.

  


Then again, they didn't know him, before. This was the only Scott they had ever known, they had nothing to compare it to, nothing to mourn for. Their Scott was just a little weird, a little crazy, a lot good. They sat with him when the Change got hard for him to hold, and didn't blink if he went loopy and reorganized all the cupboards in the galley, or hid in the crawlway under the bridge. They called him out when he was being a dick, and forgave him when he needed it.  Scott had started letting them come close, first the Captain, and then the others, letting them touch him until he could be with any of them without flinching.

  


Was this what pack meant?

  


“Frowns stick on humans, you know.” Stiles blinked and looked up as Jackson dropped to sit down on the gangway next to Stiles, heedless of his expensive silks and finely tailored trousers. He kept his gaze on the game below, even as he continued to speak. “You're not thinking anything stupid, are you?”

  


Stiles knew Jackson now, knew this was his idea of concern. “Just thinking about how well Scott fits in here.”

  


Jackson's permanent sneer faded into an almost-smile, and Stiles understood anew why, even out here, Jackson commanded the highest rates for his services. “It's this ship. She finds her own.”

  


“Did she find you?”  the question was out before Stiles could stop himself.  Jackson always seemed a little out of place, too shiny, too glamorous for the grimy, dimly lit ship.  Stiles had watched him, at ease with Lydia regardless of the grease on her fingers, only to wrinkle his nose at the mud on the ground at wherever they had landed.

  


Jackson was smiling to himself now, mind obviously light-years away.  “I think we found each other.”  He took a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back.  “Anyway, here is where we are, and unless things change, here we all remain.”

  


Before Stiles could ask, Jackson was gone, bouncing down the gangway stairs, stripping off his shirt and demanding to be tagged into the game.

  


Stiles forced himself to breathe calmly as Derek surrendered his place and came up the stairs. He sat where Jackson had just been, torso gleaming under the docking lights with a thin layer of sweat. He didn't say anything, and slowly Stiles relaxed, nodding and waving to Scott as Scott kept glancing up at them.

  


* * *

  


Fire was a terror on any ship, but Derek was struggling not to let his fear overwhelm him as he tried to do twenty things at once.  He pushed his way past Isaac and barked orders at Boyd, who snarled, hand curled protectively around Erica's unblemished hand as Stiles worked feverishly to hold her together until she could heal herself.

  


But they'd all be dead if they didn't get moving, didn't get air circulating and engines humming. Derek let the shift come over him and  roared at Boyd. Boyd held his place for one heart-stopping, perilously defiant second before he stormed out, shoving past Derek on his way back to his post. Derek let him; he knew what Boyd was feeling in all the worst ways.

  


Derek left Isaac hovering by the medbay doors, Scott holding his hand, and went to find Lydia. She was sitting on the steps, holding a piece of tortured metal in her hands.  Serenity was as much her baby as it was Derek's, and she was grieving like a mother for the ship's pain. But Derek had to make her hold it together, force it until she could do it herself. Without air, they were dead. The humans would die first, and then the wolves. Then the cold and the vacuum would creep in and make sure there was nothing left to come back. Space was as absolute and merciless as fire. “Lydia, talk to me.”

  


It took him too long to understand what she was saying. Maybe he just didn’t want to.  Serenity wasn't going to make it.

  


Derek left her trying to find a solution that didn't exist and slid down the ladder into his cabin. He took his one remaining photograph, still singed around the edges, and studied it for a moment. He put it away, punched the wall, and went to gather the crew to tell them to prepare to abandon ship.

  


Isaac argued. Lydia cried. Scott stared off at something only he could see. Jackson touched a cool metal wall with reverence before going to prepare his shuttle for escape. Derek pretended not to notice any of it, and went to check on Erica.

  


Stiles was with her, his touch gentle as he monitored her vitals. “She's stable,” he murmured as Derek stepped over the threshold. “But burns take a while to heal, even for werewolves.”

  


Derek tried to say 'I know,' but the words caught in his throat. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Take everything you can, if you make a settlement or another ship, you can use the meds for barter.” He turned to leave.

  


Stiles lunged, leaning precariously over Erica's legs, his fingertips grazing Derek's wrist, but it was enough to stop him cold.. “What about you?”

  


Derek stared at Stiles' fingers, long and clever. “Two shuttles, they can only take four each.” He looked up. “I stay with my ship.”

  


Stiles blinked, eyes wet. But he was trained as an emergency doctor, he knew triage, life and death calculus. Stiles nodded once, his fingers sliding away, leaving traces of warmth against Derek's skin. “Good luck, Captain.”

  


Derek was almost over the threshold when he heard Stiles whisper, “And thanks.”

  


The shuttles looked like toys, hanging against the Black.  Derek sat on the flight deck and watched until they were beyond sight. He took a musty, itchy service blanket from the storage locker, wrapped it around his shoulders, and settled in for his final watch.

  


He should have known that nothing good ever happened to him. His own excuse was he was muddy from lack of clean air, and in no position to argue when the offer of rescue came.  When the airlock hissed open, he'd almost sighed in relief.

  


In the space of that blink, his rescuers had turned into hunters, and had weapons drawn on him. Six against one, and now that the air pressure had re-balanced, he could smell wolfsbane. Then the smug bastard in charge had drawn and shot, and laughed as he'd stepped past to go claim his prize.

  


Like fuck.  Serenity  was his  home . Derek dragged himself over to the four-wheeler, knowing Isaac, even if he didn't know exactly what or where.

  


His groping fingers found the stock of a shotgun, loaded for bear. Derek silently thanked his beta, and pulled himself to his feet to take back what was his.

  


* * *

  


Stiles had cleared out the rest of the pack, except for Boyd, who was still holding Erica's hand. She was resting easily now, her face all but clear of the nasty, shiny burns that had been daubed across her cheeks and down her neck to wrap around onto her back. She'd shielded Lydia with her whole body, and paid for it, but her healing was finally kicking in.

  


Stiles touched Boyd's shoulder to announce his approach as he came to check on the drip. Soon she wouldn't even need this as her metabolism got the upper hand.

  


Stiles had heard all the lectures, the propaganda really, all through med school, but in truth? Werewolf anatomy was fucking amazing.

  


There was a groan from the main table, and Stiles moved over to check on his other patient. Derek blinked awake, and smiled groggily. Stiles grinned back and reached for the jar he'd prepared especially. “Here,” he said, rattling the remains of the bullet against the sides. “I saved it for the collection you're obviously keeping.”

  


Derek rolled his eyes dopily, still high on the good drugs, and Stiles felt his stomach flip. There'd been so much blood on the floor, a trail of red and black that had sent his betas into a frenzy.

  


They'd almost lost him.

  


“Ev-,” Derek croaked. He licked his lips and tried again. “Everyone okay?”

  


Stiles touched Derek's forehead, the gentle stroke that always calmed Scott. He'd learned it from his mother, years ago, when everything was still shiny and perfect. Derek relaxed. “Everyone's fine,” Stiles told him. “ Serenity's fine. We're still flying.”

  


“Still flying,” Derek murmured, satisfied, already falling back asleep.

  


Stiles wrapped his fingers around Derek's wrist, feeling for a pulse even though the monitors told him everything he should want to know. He counted the beats until he felt calmer.

  


* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles ran towards the screaming. He nearly collided with Derek as he pounded onto the main gangway. “What the fuck is up with Scott?” Derek snarled. Stiles ignored him and accelerated, heart racing. He threw himself through the hatchway into the galley, skidding to a halt as he saw Scott scream again and lunge at Jackson, claws extended. Jackson was werewolf-fast, leaping back, but not before Scott's claws cut a clean set of lines across Jackson's chest.

  


Stiles edged towards Scott. “Scott,” Stiles said, keeping his voice calm as Jackson spluttered in rage. “Can you pull the claws in for me, please?”

  


Scott pouted like he was four years old. “He looks better in red,” he declared, before plopping down in the little nook set into the wall, the one padded out with all of Lydia's cushions. He drew his knees to his chest, arms folded. Stiles winced as he then proceeded to  lick his fingertips clean.

  


Jackson snarled, eyes flashing blue. Derek was between them in a second. Jackson paused, weighing up his options. “He owes me a new shirt. That was embroidered,” he snapped waspishly, spinning on the spot and storming out the far hatch and off to his shuttle.

  


Derek let the red bleed from his eyes. “What the hell was that?” he snarled at Stiles, voice pitched low and dangerous.

  


Stiles' answering snarl sounded empty, human, weak, but it felt good. “Sorry, my request for telepathy hasn't come in yet from the universe,” he snapped. “So I know as much as you, right now.” Scott had had nightmare after nightmare all week, crawling into the tiny bunk with Stiles and shivering every night. Stiles felt strung out beyond exhaustion.

  


Derek sniffed the air. “Go ask Jackson what set him off. I'll sit with Scott.”

  


“I should...” Stiles began, but Derek cut him off.

  


“If Scott loses control, I can handle him. You can't. Go talk to Jackson.” It was a Captain's order, yet Stiles wanted to rail, yell, be the one to lose it for once. He'd taken care of Scott.

  


He'd always taken care of Scott.

  


But Scott was unfolding for Derek, making room. Derek was Scott’s Alpha now, he reminded himself. It was a wolf thing. Stiles forced his fists to uncurl and went to interrogate Jackson.

  
* * *

The next day, Scott lost it again and crawled into an air duct and refused to come out, no matter how much Stiles cajoled, begged, or offered to bribe.

  


The preacher came and brought him a sandwich somewhere in the fifth hour of being sat on the stairway, talking into a dark tunnel. “You looked like you needed this,” Deaton said, handing over the plate and a pouch of the reconstituted juice that Erica hoarded.

  


Stiles nodded his thanks; he'd gone hoarse a while back, and was now just sitting and waiting for Scott to come back. Lydia swore he couldn't get out any other way but through this hatch. The juice was thin and watery, but still tasted like sunshine.

  


Stiles didn't realize the oddest things he'd be homesick for. Juice with the pulp. The sound of rain on the roof. The muddy patch of grass that had never quite gotten paved over out the back of the hospital parking lot, and the way it squelched satisfyingly underfoot.

  


Deaton's hand was huge and warm against the back of Stiles' neck, and Stiles was stabbed with a sudden, desperate urge to be able to talk to his dad. But his dad, though he hadn't mocked Stiles for believing Scott's letters like the others, had gently suggested that Stiles focus on med school, on keeping his scholarship, on making a better life for himself. Stiles had been forced to leave him behind without so much as a proper goodbye. Was he sitting alone, right now, in their empty family home, thinking about his son, too?

  


He didn't realize it was a panic attack until Deaton's hand squeezed gently. “Breathe, Stiles,” he coaxed. His plate was taken off his lap, and Stiles blinked until he could focus on Scott, crouching at his feet. Stiles wanted to grab hold of him, the only anchor he had left in his whole, stupid life, but his stupid muscles wouldn't move.

  


Scott's eyes were huge, pupils dilated in the dark light. “We are starstuff,” he said seriously, and a great wracking sob overtook Stiles. He missed his friend most of all. Scott wouldn't say cryptic shit, he'd just be there, and say something dumb and perfect and that only they two would understand.

  


Stiles hated most that he didn’t understand Scott anymore.

  


Scott whimpered, eyes flashing amber as he all but crawled onto Stiles' lap in his desperation. Stiles grabbed hold onto what he had left and shook.

  


In the morning, he'd be humiliated, but for now, he let the preacher help him and Scott into the room they shared. Deaton withdrew without a word, sliding the partition door closed behind him. Stiles kicked off his shoes and crawled into the bunk fully clothed, not saying anything as Scott crawled over him to settle behind him, the big spoon for once.

  


Stiles had almost got his breathing back to normal, in the dark, with Scott's hands petting him. Stiles caught his hand and laced their fingers together. They lay like that a while before the door slid open again. Derek was a distinct shadow as he half-closed the door behind him. “Stiles?” he murmured, and Stiles screwed his eyes shut, hating that the news was already all over the ship. “Do you want me to take Scott for the night?”

  


He tightened his grip, almost squeezing. “No,” he rasped. “I...he...I've gotta look out for him.” The words tumbled out like a desperate mantra.

  


Derek's shadow moved closer, and Stiles could sense the hand hovering, half-reaching out to touch. “Okay. But how about I look after both of you tonight?”

  


Stiles shook his head. “You don't...”

  


He cut himself off as Derek's fingers brushed Stiles' forehead, right between the eyes. “I'm the Captain. You're on my boat. Sleep. That's an order.”

  


Stiles exhaled and fell asleep. When he woke up, Scott was still spooned up behind him, and Derek was asleep on the floor, between them and the rest of the universe.

  


* * *

  


Stiles nervously played with the cuffs of his borrowed shirt, and Derek had to cough to cover his grin. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Stiles retorted, waving his hand in a futile attempt to shoo away the flies that covered this hellhole planet. “I don't know why Erica or Lydia couldn't do this?”

  


Derek grinned openly at him, tipping his hat back slightly to get a better look at Stiles. “Erica's covering us, and a good mechanic isn't worth risking.”

  


“But a good doctor is?” Stiles shot back with a little grin. Derek remembered the eagerness Stiles had shown when he'd known he was going to, for once, be involved in a job. That was before he'd got the details, of course.

  


“Maybe,” Derek teased. It felt good, the sun on his skin and the worn wood under his fingers. “Besides, you look better in paisley. You've got the legs for it,” Derek added.

  


Stiles blushed and yanked his skirt over his knees. “Comment again, and I swear by my pretty floral bonnet, I will end you,” he hissed.

  


Derek was sure he heard a sniggering from the wagon. Then, beyond that, he heard the clatter of hooves. He schooled the smirk off his face. “Showtime.”

  


There were a few more bad guys than promised, and Derek made a mental note to add a premium to their tab as he felt his fangs lengthen.

  


Ten minutes later, it was all over. Derek tapped Stiles on the leg, and he only jerked a little before uncurling from his protective crouch. Derek gave him an approving nod – he hadn't been sure Stiles had been listening when Erica had told him where to dive if the gunplay got heavy, but then again, the kid was a doctor. He wasn't stupid.

  


Derek held out his hand and Stiles took it. Derek grinned, flashing teeth. “Let's go claim our reward!”

  


The bugs disappeared with the sun, and the local booze was strong enough to make even werewolves feel a little relaxed. Stiles was plastered after his first half glass, and was laughing, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, and the local girls and boys dragged him into their dances.

  


“You're staring,” Erica said, stepping out of the night to sit beside him.

  


“I'm the boss, Reyes,” Derek reminded her.

  


“You're staring, Captain,” she amended, handing him a jug of moonshine. “Ogling even, some might say.”

  


“Are we talking about how Capt is making cow eyes at the Doc?” Isaac asked, appearing from nowhere to sit on Derek's other side. His collar was askew, and he stank of sex and girl.

  


“Give him another half jug, he needs a little help,” Erica told Isaac.

  


“I'm right here,” Derek grumbled, taking a swig. His crew had no respect.

  


Erica just laughed, high and bright, and stole her jug back for a big pull. “Well, if you want to fix that, sir, you might want to go over there and ask the good Doctor to a dance?”

  


Derek scowled and Isaac snickered. “Whoops, too late, looks like the mayor's daughter is getting there fir....”

  


Derek didn't hear the end of Isaac's comment, already moving to intercept Stiles just before the girl in question got to him. He grabbed Stiles arm and towed him in the direction of the food. “You hungry?”

  


“Kinda,” Stiles said with a laugh, looking confused but amused. “Thanks for the rescue from the grope patrol back there,” he added, leaning forward for a slice of bread.

  


Derek felt his claws puncture his palm before he got it under control. He didn't look over to where Erica and Isaac were sitting.

  


He didn't need to see their gloating faces to know he was screwed.

  


* * *

  


Stiles knew it was a risk, but he also knew that his plan was as good as he could get it by himself. He walked into the galley, taking a moment just to watch them, his strange new friends, talking and laughing among themselves. “There you are, doc. Come on, take a seat.”

  


Stiles sank slowly onto the bench, between Lydia and Scott, and handed Derek his notepad. “What's this?” Derek asked, dropping his half-eaten piece of bread and wiping his hands before picking it up.

  


“It's a job. I want to hire your team, Captain,” Stiles said, feeling his heart start to beat faster. “I need to rob a hospital.”

  


* * *

  


Of all the people to betray them, Derek honestly never thought it would be  Jackson . But then again, the boy had been raised in the Core, taught to believe that fripperies and fineries were the highest ideals in life. He'd lost a lot when he'd been bit, all those years ago.

  


Maybe he just wanted it back. Derek could almost understand that.

  


If Jackson had begged, Derek would have left the airlock cracked until they were high enough to space the trash, and then slept well that night. But Jackson had just stood there, head bowed in submission. Derek waited til the last second, then hit the other button.

  


Jackson tumbled onto the deck, gasping, pretty nose running with blood. Pretty red, Scott's voice echoed in his head from months before.

  


Derek put his boot in the middle of Jackson's chest and leaned forward. “It's not me you have to beg forgiveness from.”

  


He'd left Jackson gasping on the floor. He walked passed a stone-faced Stiles and went to get some sleep.

  


* * *

  


One of the rules of the edge was you looked out for each other as best you could. So when Derek heard that the rains had hit Beacon hard, and the hills had slipped, he just had to nod and Boyd was changing their course. An hour later, their client was waving them, ordering them to divert the shipment to the disaster area.

  


They looked after their own. Because next time it might be your ass that was being saved.

  


When the voice at the other end of Beacon docks heard they had a doctor on board, a real one, not some sawbone, they were diverted right up to the mine site. Erica whistled, low in her throat, as they flew over devastated lands. “That was all farms,” she remembered aloud. She didn't add that they were farms that had only just recovered from the decimations of war. None of them needed reminding for that.

  


One disaster at a time. They'd deal with the hunger as it came.

  


Derek and Boyd and Isaac and Erica spent days, hoisting and shoring, cutting lumber and fixing joists until even their muscles couldn't keep up. Derek sent them on to the makeshift mess, and went to check on the rest of his crew. He found Lydia in charge of her own private army of engineers and mechanics and grease monkeys and circuit kids, slowly patching and rebuilding the power grid that had been wiped out, coaxing generators into going just a little bit longer, keeping the lights one. Lydia was pale and panda-eyed, but radiant in her success. She didn't even complain at Derek's muddy fingers, just smiled and leaned into his touch as he dropped a kiss on her forehead.

  


Next, to his surprise, he found Jackson and Scott, working together in the tents that were serving as hospital wards. Jackson was moving like an angel between the beds, smiling and teasing gently, charming and effortless as only a trained Companion would be as he noted levels in drips and checked bandages. Scott darted around, targeting beds seemingly at random, but always bringing the right supplies – a clean bandage, a fresh glass of water, a new extra blanket.

  


Jackson saw Derek and winked as he nodded further down the corridor formed by the tents and crates that formed the medical relief effort. Derek followed the instruction, then followed his ears – the scent of sickness and medicine and death was too strong to sniff out Stiles, but Derek knew by instinct the beat of every heart on  Serenity .

  


He found Stiles in a kind of makeshift courtyard, stripped to the waist, dunking himself in a barrel of water. He rose, a graceful arch to his back as he flipped his hair back out of his face. There were scars on his pale skin now; the Black had left her mark on Stiles in all the worst ways. Derek moved and snagged up the towel left on another barrel and pushed it into Stiles groping hand.

  


Stiles rubbed his face dry and his smile broadened as he saw Derek. Derek shifted on the spot. “You hungry? We're hitting the mess.”

  


Stiles nodded, weariness obvious in every pore. “Just a sec.” He ducked away, conferring with one of the other dragooned nurses for a moment. Derek was unsurprised to see Jackson and Scott falling into step with them as they made their way across camp towards the smell of food.

  


Every few steps, someone patted Stiles shoulder or arm, or called out in gratitude. Stiles blushed, dipping his head, and Derek found himself moving closer, protective or possessive even he couldn't tell, until his hand was on Stiles' shoulder. They walked into the mess, and Erica waved them over, food all ready for them. Everyone shuffled until they were all sitting, legs touching and feet tangling under the table. Scott slithered away from Stiles and popped up between Erica and Isaac to steal her apple. Erica just laughed and deftly carved it into democratic pieces for them to share. Boyd shoveled some carrots onto her plate and stole half her potato while she was distracted. Jackson and Deaton were sharing a bread plate, and Lydia stole a sip out of Jackson's cup while he was turned away.

  


Stiles nudged him with his shoulder. “Your kids are kind of making a scene.”

  


“Haven't you realized by now we were raised by wolves?” Derek teased back, happier now that they were all together and safe. Stiles laughed and cut his own apple in pieces and offered Derek a segment. Made bold by tiredness or the trespassing attention or something else entirely, Derek ate it straight off Stiles' fingers and listened to Stiles’ heart skip a beat.

  


* * *

  


The ship was quiet, just the gentle hum of the engines rumbling through the decks and up the struts, a constant, familiar thrum that whispered  home . Derek checked the auto-pilot before levering himself out of the pilot's chair. He felt warm, a little hungry, a little sleepy. He did the rounds; Erica and Boyd, heartbeats steady in their bunk. Lydia curled up in her hammock in the engine room, engrossed in a book, her hair a messy knot on the top of her head, her feet in mismatched socks. She smiled and blew him a sleepy kiss before snuggling deeper under her covers.

  


Isaac was jacking off in his room. Derek made his footsteps extra heavy and smiled as he heard Isaac's muttered curse.

  


The kettle whistled as Derek stepped into the galley. “Still up?” he asked Stiles, stepping around him to get the mugs, the small packets of herbal tea that Lydia always snuck onto the provisions manifest no matter how many times Boyd took it off.

  


Stiles nodded around a yawn. “Going over some of the scans from the hospital again.” He was wearing a soft cotton top that Derek suspected was a hand-me-down, and rough, handspun pants that he'd bought at some trading post a dozen stops ago. His feet were bare, and as Stiles twitched his toes, Derek realized he was staring. Stiles just smirked and topped up the mugs.

  


By unspoken agreement, they bypassed the table in favour of the little nook, settling in among the cushions that smelled of all the crew in an interlaced, inseparable meshing of scents. Stiles curled up a little, feet tucked under himself, leaning his shoulder against the padded curve of the wall. “We know why I'm up, how about you?”

  


“Taking a spell at helm,” Derek admitting, blowing fragrant steam into Stiles' face.

  


Stiles wrinkled his nose. “Don't we have an autopilot for that? And a Boyd? And an autopilot?”

  


Derek shrugged and took a sip, stalling a little. “I just like driving my own boat sometimes. Is that a crime?”

  


Stiles grinned. He was smiling more, Derek noticed, especially with the improvements Scott seemed to be making lately. “I don't know, the infamous Derek Hale having fun? He might lose his scowl and then where would we be?” Derek poked him in the shin with the toe of his boot. “Ow,” Stiles mugged. “Not far, I'm defenseless and you've got those great big jackboots on.”

  


Derek sighed, toed off one boot, and poked Stiles again.

  


Stiles laughed, and yawned again. “Sorry, it's not the company, I swear.”

  


Derek frowned. “I thought Scott was sleeping better now?”

  


“Scott,” Stiles said, eyes on his mug and speaking with careful emphasis. “Is sleeping just fine. All the way through the night, even.”

  


Derek reformulated his question. “Then is  Stiles sleeping through the night?”

  


Stiles cocked a finger and made a clicking noise with his tongue. “I was always taught in med school to never prescribe yourself anything. They never said what to do if you were the only doctor for several planets in any direction.”

  


There was a wistfulness there, a kind of melancholy that Derek simultaneously didn't want to touch with a ten foot pole and wanted to dig in through until he'd uncovered all Stiles' secrets. “Herbal tea's a good start,” he said instead.

  


Stiles nodded. “Pity it tastes like stewed straw.”

  


Derek took another sip. “Nah, I've stewed straw, this is several degrees better.” He shrugged off Stiles' curious look. “You learn to eat anything, in the Army.”

  


Stiles licked his lips. “You served?”

  


“I fought,” Derek corrected. “I'm not good at serving.”

  


Stiles nodded. “I can see that. For the...”

  


“You can call us the Rebels,” Derek said, taking pity on Stiles as he cast around for the right term. “We used to call ourselves the Browncoats. Our CO,” he added, frowning at old memories. “It came from our CO. She had a brown coat, two legs or four.”

  


“I didn't know that – the Browncoats thing, I mean.” Stiles said. “We never heard anything about the War except that...that the Core won,” he stuttered.

  


“That you did,” Derek sighed.

  


“I'm sorry,” Stiles blurted. “For...”

  


Derek put down his cup. “Did you declare war? Did you decide werewolves couldn't even live on the edges? Did you kill us? No? Then you have nothing to apologize. Hell,” he added, forcing himself not to scowl. “You stuck by Scott when most other folk would've left him to rot. As far as I'm concerned, you've got nothing to say sorry for.”

  


“But,” Stiles said calmly. “I can still feel sorrow that it was done at all.”

  


Derek's muscles unclenched all at once. He hadn't realized how tight he'd been holding himself. “That you can, Doc. That you do.”

  


Stiles dipped his head, and Derek felt Stiles' bare foot gently rub against his ankle for a moment.

  


They drank the rest of their tea in silence.

  


* * *


	3. part three

  
Stiles checked the temperature and dropped the thermometer back in the sterilizing bin. “Just a mild fever, not uncommon while they're teething. Can you get ice where you are?”

  


The clinics had been Jackson's idea, of all peoples, but they'd been pushed further and further out towards the edge as the Core had set their patrols wider and wider. There were few services and generally no doctors this far out. Whenever  Serenity  set down for a couple of days, Stiles set up shop, tending to everything from mild sores and cuts to bones not properly set for months after the original injury. People rarely had coin, but they had other things  Serenity  needed. Derek didn't police it too much, not if it didn't cost them much more than Stiles' time – the goodwill they made would more than likely repay itself a hundredfold over some time down the track.

  


Stiles made sure to be careful with the drugs they had stolen from the hospital, eking them out to last. But he could offer a lot in reassurance and skilled touch, and made sure to be free with his knowledge with whoever in these settlements showed any aptitude for it.

  


So far, it had been working out. And it gave Jackson a way to help. Stiles took it as a double win.

  


The young mother nodded her thanks as Stiles finished the checkup, and Erica cooed over the baby in her arms as she walked them off the deck and down the ramp. “Watch out, Boyd,” Stiles said to the air, knowing that all the wolves were listening in, watchful of the strangers coming into the medbay. “She's clucking.”

  


“I can hear you too, you know, asshole,” Erica said, but she was smiling, face a little flushed, so Stiles just poked his tongue out at her. “And that was your last patient. We timed this visit well, lots of fresh fruit!” She licked her lips happily.

  


“I can make pie,” Scott volunteered. Stiles beamed at the unusually lucid sentence. He only winced a little when Scott then started rattling off the recipe as chemical equations and reactions.

  


“Would you believe,” he told Erica as they followed Scott up to the living deck. “He nearly failed chemistry in high school.”

  


“As long as it tastes good, I don't care,” Isaac butted in, taking Scott by the arm and propelling him into the kitchen. “Get cooking, Scotty.”

  


Scott laughed and dove into the pantry in a clatter of bowls and pans.

  


Stiles decided ignorance was the better part of valour, and walked through the galley and up the gangway to the bridge. The helm looked different, with sunlight dappling the console, lighting up Boyd’s collection of figurines. Stiles gently tapped on the sole of the boot that was sticking out from under the secondary console. “The Doctor is 'Out,'” Stiles reported. Derek pushed himself out from under the console with a grunt. “If you've got bits left over,” Stiles added, nodding at the pile of components stacked on a rag on the deck. “That's a bad sign.”

  


“Not necessarily,” Lydia's voice echoed up from an open conduit under the console. “Derek, we're gonna need to replace this line, it's more patch than wire. We've got a coil of it down in the engine room. And while you're there, get me my clipping pliers!” Derek just nodded, seemingly at ease with taking orders on his own bridge.

  


“I'll help,” Stiles volunteered. “Otherwise they'll have me peeling apples in the galley, and these are surgeon's hands,” Stiles added, holding up his fingers for inspection. Derek just rolled his eyes and led the way down to the engine room.

  


Stiles poked Lydia's hammock with a skeptical eye. “How does this even stay up?”

  


“It's very comfortable,” Derek reported. Stiles raised a questioning eyebrow. “Until it collapsed under my weight,” he added with a small shrug.

  


Stiles burst out laughing. “Oh I see. It's a security device. Only she's small enough to get in it. Clever girl.”

  


Derek just threw Lydia’s clipping pliers at his head.

  


By the time they had the console rewired, the smell of pie was wafting through the ship. “Shut the doors so we can keep this in here forever,” Boyd declared, lifting his head to sniff deeper.

  


“Ah yes,” Erica nudged him as she licked her fork. “Sweet pie and stale socks, a winning combination.” That started them all bickering about what was the worst smell on the ship.

  


Stiles used their distraction to steal the last slice of pie. But he let Derek fork duel him for bites, so Derek overruled everyone else's protests and claimed Captain’s privilege.

  


Stiles felt full, and warm, and  happy .

  


* * *

  


Stiles started at the wave on the screen, seeing it but not comprehending it. “The warrant has..?”

  


“Expired,” Erica explained gently. “And it seems to have been cold-cased.”

  


“There was an election,” Lydia added. “Change in power. They're probably sweeping it under the rug. I mean, you told us yourself, they thought Scott was a failure, as far as their experiments went. Now, I bet, you stay out of their way, they're probably going to pretend you never existed.”

  


Boyd clapped him on the shoulder. “Congrats man, you're officially no longer on the lam.”

  


Stiles stumbled off, not seeing the worried looks everyone else gave him. Lydia found him, standing in the hatchway, watching Scott and Deaton play checkers and discuss something to do with lambs and goats. “What's really bugging you?” she asked, leaning against the hatchway.

  


Stiles exhaled. “It's been two years since I got him out of that place.” He spat the word, that Scott was in that cage at all still gnawed at him. “He's...”

  


“Safe,” Lydia said. “Safe and among his pack. Where he belongs. He may not yet be the Scott you knew growing up, may never be again, but maybe that's just part of growing up?”

  


“Maybe,” he sighed, and walked past Scott, touching his shoulder gently.

  


Scott smiled. “I'm winning,” he told Stiles.

  


“Go you,” Stiles told him.

  


Scott grabbed him as Stiles went to walk away. “We're winning,” he added, looking Stiles straight in the eye, squeezing gently like he was trying to make Stiles understand.

  


Stiles swallowed hard and nodded.

  


He found Derek with a pad, doing inventory in the spares store. “Need a hand?” Stiles asked, picking up some random tool and putting it back down.

  


“I thought you'd be off celebrating your first day not a wanted felon,” Derek said.

  


Stiles sighed. “You heard that?” Derek just tapped his ear with a stylus. “Of course you did. I just...like I told Lydia. Two years.”

  


“Is that what's really bothering you?” Derek asked, making a note on his pad and setting it aside.

  


Stiles slumped and thought. Derek waited patiently, watching him, but not putting him on the spot. Stiles made a decision and took a deep breath. “I think I just... I've spent two years not realizing that my life has started over. And...and it's a good place, better than I thought I’d get, way better, and I want to make it work. I need to live this life I’ve got. Enjoy it.”

  


Derek smiled. “That sounds like a good plan. How are you going to start your new life.”

  


Stiles moved forward. “Day one. Do something I think I've wanted for a really, really long time now.” He leaned in slowly, giving Derek time to pull away. Derek kept smiling as Stiles kissed him gently.

  


“Day one going good so far?” Derek asked, lips brushing against Stiles'.

  


“Going great so far,” Stiles said, laughing as Derek kissed him back.

  


They broke away sharply at the round of applause. Everyone – Scott, Erica, Boyd, Lydia, Isaac, Jackson, even Deaton – were lined up on the gangway. “Get a room!” Isaac catcalled.

  


Derek touched Stiles's hand. “My cabin's that way,” he pointed out.

  


Stiles towed him up the stairs.

  


* * *

  


Derek usually wasn't very good at spotting beginnings. But Stiles, curled up on his side, his cheek resting on Derek's chest, felt like the start of something amazing.


End file.
